


Leave Naught Behind

by Silver_Basilisk



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Emotionally Repressed, Five Stages of Grief, Gen, Loss of Identity, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Survivor Guilt, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:13:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23220778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Basilisk/pseuds/Silver_Basilisk
Summary: Regis is leaving Toussaint with a heavy heart. Follows the events of Blood and Wine. Lots of introspection, a pinch of philosophy, and a heap of tiny geeky detail.For greater effect, try to imagine Regis reading this story to you in his game voice :)
Relationships: Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36





	Leave Naught Behind

The air was fragrant with smells of the waking earth - dewy grass, damp stone of the old moss-covered graves, and a whiff of poppies and camomiles unfurling their petals. The fire has died, its embers barely glowing. Empty bottles of mandrake cordial lay scattered around the clearing. The witcher snored soundly, wrapped in his cloak, unperturbed by the wet and the chill of the morning. His expression was peaceful.

Regis felt a pang of envy looking at him. He wished he could sleep like that. Or better be drunk still. Even a splintering headache of a hangover would be better than what he fought so hard to suppress.

Painful awareness. Emptiness. The sense of finality.

He threw one last glance at the witcher and turned around. It was harder than he imagined, like ripping a bandage off a healing wound. But it was time to go. At least he got to say goodbye, and it was more than he could ask for. After Stygga. After Dettlaff.

He started walking briskly, brushing off the thought. Not now. No, not now. He sped up, almost running towards the nook behind the crypt where his horse stood waiting. He didn’t plan on leaving the crypt so soon. It was a peaceful hideout of sorts, far from the hustle and bustle of Beauclair, that pulsing heart of the fairytale kingdom where nothing was ever true.

Regis has gotten quite used to his murky abode. But then each home he’d ever built for himself felt like the best home, the last home. He kept trying to settle down for centuries, but always ended up on the road. Not in the least because of the choice he had made, living among humans. A never-aging neighbor would draw unwanted attention. But Regis still craved the company of people. A coping mechanism in a hostile world, perhaps. Humans with their pitifully short lives, and yet look at them - they won. They persevered and dominated, unlike the elder races, unlike the unfortunate children of those who were thrown into this world during the Conjunction of Spheres. Humans adapted and survived. So Regis took to studying humans and became fascinated with his subject. Unlike Dettlaff, who chose…

Stop.

Regis ruffled the mane of his horse - his latest and last acquisition in Beauclair. The beast looked roadworthy, lean and muscled, and should carry him far. He untied her and checked the straps of the saddlebags, all his scarce possessions tucked away neatly. Some books, journals, sketches, ink and paper, herbs and salves, the kind he wouldn’t easily get on the road. A single change of clothes and the tools of a barber-surgeon. He was ready.

Regis threw one last glance at Mère-Lachaiselongue cemetery bathing in the first rays of the morning sun. The waves of the lake rumbled below the cliff where Geralt slept, now hidden from sight by the trees. The door to the crypt, locked tight. In the depths of that crypt he had buried what remained of...

Regis flew into the saddle in one swift movement and took the reins, guiding the mare towards the road leading south. He hoped to leave quietly and not stir the resting witcher.

The note and the gift he left at Corvo Bianco should be enough, he thought. Better than a teary farewell. Geralt never showed much emotion, of course, but Regis couldn’t quite vouch for himself after all that came to pass. He felt like a broken mirror, loose shards suspended in the air. He tried not to think of things that could send him bursting into a thousand tiny pieces. It took all his willpower to just make it through the last day, to finish the mutagenerator, to scribble the damned note and say no more than “your dearly devoted friend” at its bottom. To fend off the bruxae the night before, even though he didn’t feel like he had any right to defend himself. It was more of a reflex. For what he did he deserved to just... cease to be, really.

Why go on, then? He could’ve stayed and let them find him. Or make his way to the Elder and confess. The punishment would be sure and swift, and it would all be over for good. But Regis got a taste of non-existence once, the echos of thestifling fear he felt still weighing on his chest. That, and the flashing images of the night when all hell broke loose. So much blood, staining the marble stairs of Beauclair. Innocent lives lost in a vengeful frenzy. The madness of it. The unforgivable madness of it. 

That night he scooped up Dettlaff’s lifeless body, so pale it almost glowed in the moonlight. Laid him to rest in the far corner of the crypt, wrapped in Regis’ blanket. And once he pulled the lid over the sarcophagus, sealing it tight, he let anger consume him. He was furious - at himself, at reckless Dettlaff, at manipulative Syanna and selfish, childish Anarietta. At Geralt. If it was anyone other than Geralt, he would never have done what he had done. But - too late now.

The anger kept him going, at least for a bit. Regis focused on the investigation, on finding the missing links. He found the proof he was looking for, that the golden duchess was to fall last victim to her vengeful sister. But human justice was nothing like vampire justice, Regis discovered.

Geralt and him used to talk about the twisted concept of the lesser evil, a dilemma presenting itself ever so often. But what came to pass in the end? Killed the fox that stole some chicken, but not the one who deliberately left the pen unlocked.

True, Dettlaff was no fox. A fox kills out of hunger, driven by survival instinct. Dettlaff was driven by loyalty to his tribe. Syanna was no forgetful peasant either, her actions impulsive at first glance, yet cold and calculated. And it was Anna Henrietta who abandoned all reason and put the lives of her subjects at risk.In what happened that night no evil was the lesser evil, Regis thought. There was no right choice to be made. They tried their best, he and Geralt. And he trusted Dettlaff to stop. But his _krove_ _ruva*_ didn’t stop.

In the end, who was he protecting? The civilians? The witcher? Or himself?

Regis spurred the horse once he was off the burial grounds. He could, of course, travel like any of his kind - a sultry wisp of smoke cutting through the air at great speed, undetectable by human eye. Leaving a few trinkets and books behind would’ve been nothing. Things were of little value to him. So he could travel like a vampire. But...

He didn’t feel like one. Not anymore. He tried so hard to blend in, fought his own nature for years. And now he'd cut the last strings that bound him to his tribe, broke the sacred rules, betrayed his blood. Anathema. The accursed. The untouchable. 

The silver and ruby ring, gift of his friend the humanist, gleamed on his finger. 

It was his choice and his penance.

Regis sat upright in the saddle, a patched-up grey cloak around his shoulders, no hat to shield his eyes from the blazing sun. He shall go on and on, back aching, joints stiff, hunger trapped in his throat, for as long as he can. True, the horse was flesh and blood and didn’t care much for his penance, so he’d have to stop from time to time. But Regis wanted his body to hurt. Physically.

He would follow the path over the mountains and into the valley of Sudduth, then head south, alone, step by step, aware of his surroundings. He would notice shapes and smells. He would focus on the dull discomfort of spending all day in a saddle, and the evening chill getting into his bones, and the silence only broken by bird’s cries and rare gusts of wind.

He would not think of his old hansa. Or of non-existence, the cold, sticky fear of it. Or Dettlaff. A hundred years would not be enough for him to relieve that night in detail and emerge whole. Maybe he’ll never be whole. Maybe it serves him right.

He would not think of Geralt, and what following the witcher cost him - yet again. Regis was a more or less eternal being, and that came at a price he couldn’t have fathomed when he chose to give up on his old habits, created a new identity for himself, and mingled with humans. Loss was new and unexpectedly painful. He thought of the Unseen Elder, hidden away and afraid, ever watching the gate to their old world. A gate that would likely never reopen. The Elder lost a home which he harbored memories of. Regis lost a home he never even knew. And then lost it again. And again.

So anything would do, really. Anything to escape the memories and the pain that came with them. The all-consuming, heart-wrenching, excruciating pain of guilt, betrayal and loss.

Anything.

I am so tired and fuck it all, thought Regis. Never been a better moment to say it out loud. But I shall go on just in spite. Repent in the only way I can. And one day, far, far from now, I shall hunch over a blank parchment and tell the whole truth. And maybe years or centuries later an inquisitive reader will leaf through the pages of the story of one vampire Dettlaff, of the Garasham tribe, and one human Sylvia Anna, an exile of Toussaint, and judge them, and be a better judge than me. And thus in history it shall pass.

* _krove_ _ruva =_ blood brother. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Regis is one of my all-time favorite characters in the Witcher universe, and like many of you, I was pretty heartbroken for him at the end of Blood and Wine. I felt like he deserved an outlet, a focus on his side of the story. Please let me know what you think! 
> 
> Also: should I continue this story with a new plot, new original characters, and Regis' journey through the various stages of grief and healing? Got lots of ideas about diving deeper into vampire lore, language, science etc. Or would you like to see more introspective portraits of your favorite Witcher characters? 
> 
> P.S. Did you notice that Corvo Bianco translates as "White Raven" from Italian? White wolf caught a white raven. Love it!!  
> P.P.S. Apologies for any grammatical errors - English is my second language and I'm just a word-loving geek. If Regis and I ever met in real life, I'm not sure who'd outtalk who. Neither would shut up first, that's for certain.


End file.
